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It's been a week since my last entry, my dear Journal, and sorry, but it's not like I can write any more often. Work and school seem to be consuming everything.

Well, the English teacher assigned this stupid-ass exam paper to analyze James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Dear god, sometimes I just want to stand up and beat his ass down in the middle of class. Still, I don't need to give the superintendent a reason to expel me, so I don't.

Besides, the book has to be some of the driest reading I've ever sampled. Granted, introductions are usually pretty boring as it is, but... Damn. Does it have to explain every damn thing possible? Really? Thank god for Cliff's Notes.

Besides, it's not like I'm trying to fail, it's just that never in my life have I ever wanted so badly to not write anything. No offence to James Joyce, but seriously, that dude who wrote the introduction needs to really just go away. Far, far away.

Mom and I haven't exactly been getting along lately, since she's complaining that I never babysit my little sister. And it's not like I don't want to, but I need the money I get from my job. And unless she's willing to pay me to babysit, it's not like I have much of a choice in the matter. Besides, my little sister's smarter than most of my co-workers anyway.

I mean, one of the guys brought his PSP to work and was showing all the other guys there (including me) pictures of the hot babes he'd screwed. Some even had close-ups on their naughty bits. My guess is that most of the photos were taken from porno sites, but... If he's lying, it isn't worth it, and if he's not lying, well, then it would be a waste of time to argue.

Well, Journal, remember how I told you how I have no friends? Well, that girl I mentioned last week has become bound and determined to make me have more friends. That's never going to happen. There's a reason why I sit alone all the time, attack everybody around me, and constantly make sure other people go as far away as possible.

When all you've seen is knives hidden behind smiles, you start to enjoy breaking the smiles to see exactly how their little plans fall apart. Besides, when people can't get close, they can't stab you. If people don't know you, they can't hurt you.

When you've been betrayed several dozen times by the people you hold dearest, you come to realize that if you don't hold anybody dear, you won't get betrayed. And I don't mean betrayal as in not fulfilling a promise or something. That's just what humans do, and it's not something I can change instantly.

I mean betrayal as a conscious and malicious act. Like a friend spreading your secrets across the school so as to improve their own social status. That, to me, is a betrayal. Something that goes against any normal person's principle or what would be considered "beyond the pale."

Journal, you'll never betray me, I can tell. Because you don't know how. And if you did, you'd betray me too. Still, after a while, you, like everything else, are going to leave me behind, since that's what happens.

Description
It's been a week since my last entry, my dear Journal, and sorry, but it's not like I can write any more often. Work and school seem to be consuming everything.

Well, the English teacher assigned this stupid-ass exam paper to analyze James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Dear god, sometimes I just want to stand up and beat his ass down in the middle of class. Still, I don't need to give the superintendent a reason to expel me, so I don't.

Besides, the book has to be some of the driest reading I've ever sampled. Granted, introductions are usually pretty boring as it is, but... Damn. Does it have to explain every damn thing possible? Really? Thank god for Cliff's Notes.

Besides, it's not like I'm trying to fail, it's just that never in my life have I ever wanted so badly to not write anything. No offence to James Joyce, but seriously, that dude who wrote the introduction needs to really just go away. Far, far away.

Mom and I haven't exactly been getting along lately, since she's complaining that I never babysit my little sister. And it's not like I don't want to, but I need the money I get from my job. And unless she's willing to pay me to babysit, it's not like I have much of a choice in the matter. Besides, my little sister's smarter than most of my co-workers anyway.

I mean, one of the guys brought his PSP to work and was showing all the other guys there (including me) pictures of the hot babes he'd screwed. Some even had close-ups on their naughty bits. My guess is that most of the photos were taken from porno sites, but... If he's lying, it isn't worth it, and if he's not lying, well, then it would be a waste of time to argue.

Well, Journal, remember how I told you how I have no friends? Well, that girl I mentioned last week has become bound and determined to make me have more friends. That's never going to happen. There's a reason why I sit alone all the time, attack everybody around me, and constantly make sure other people go as far away as possible.

When all you've seen is knives hidden behind smiles, you start to enjoy breaking the smiles to see exactly how their little plans fall apart. Besides, when people can't get close, they can't stab you. If people don't know you, they can't hurt you.

When you've been betrayed several dozen times by the people you hold dearest, you come to realize that if you don't hold anybody dear, you won't get betrayed. And I don't mean betrayal as in not fulfilling a promise or something. That's just what humans do, and it's not something I can change instantly.

I mean betrayal as a conscious and malicious act. Like a friend spreading your secrets across the school so as to improve their own social status. That, to me, is a betrayal. Something that goes against any normal person's principle or what would be considered "beyond the pale."

Journal, you'll never betray me, I can tell. Because you don't know how. And if you did, you'd betray me too. Still, after a while, you, like everything else, are going to leave me behind, since that's what happens.